


this is who they are

by wintersbwidow



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron, Backstory, Gen, Origin Story, Sad, be careful reading the runaways chapter, but cute, filling in gaps in canon, jewish!maximoffs, romani!maximoffs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5078305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersbwidow/pseuds/wintersbwidow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war stole childhood from the Maximoffs. So when, at a protest, a man tells them that there’s a way for them to get money and help rid their country of this terrible war, the twins don’t even have to discuss it. Wanda grabs her brother’s hand and he squeezes it.  They are ready. So they agree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. origin story

**Author's Note:**

> I write this fic under the following assumptions:  
> \- the twins were born in march 19, 1991 (24); considering their parents died when they were 10 (2001) they were in orphanages since that year till they were 14 (2005), they [unknowingly] volunteered for hydra at 19 (2010).  
> \- the scepter did not give them powers. they already had them; the scepter only awakened them, which is why they survived the experiments.

It’s hard to find someone who’ll let you into their house when you’re Rroma — they think you’ll take everything — but Wanda cleans houses for a bit of extra cash. Pietro washes dishes and mops up messes at a small restaurant, the money he gets barely enough to live by. No one ever asks for how old they are at jobs, because they’re both tall for their age, but mostly because it means they can pay the twins a bit less than they’d pay someone else. They start working the spring before they’re sixteen years old.

When it comes to food or clothes or medicine, they try to buy everything; but it’s so expensive, especially the clothes. So they either find things in the trash or steal from street vendors, sometimes, or from thrift stores. Wanda feels especially guilty about stealing because it enables the stereotypes, but she knows they don’t really have a choice. They don’t regret leaving the foster system at all. They were just as alone there, and no one would have taken them both in. At least they’re together now. That’s what matters. They’ve made it on their own this far.

Finally Pietro makes enough money for one of the closet-sized apartments in the poor part of town (Wanda’s money was spent on medicine this time). On their first try, the landlord yells at them to get lost because he doesn’t want those _dirty g***ies_ camping in his property. Eventually, though, they find someone who rents them a tiny apartment with one bedroom and running water and electricity (well, sometimes). It features a dingy mattress that Wanda sleeps on because Pietro insists; for his part, he rolls out two comforters and sleeps on top of them. The room is always bare, with only their makeshift beds and a chest of drawers where they keep their clothing. On top of it are a couple of battered books, stolen from thrift stores or from the library. Pietro always returns the only photograph of their parents that survived the bombing to the drawers at night (but during the day, he always keeps it on him). Wanda keeps their mother’s necklace there, too, when wearing it reminds her too much of days they can never recover.

Together they earn just enough to cover the rent, with a meager amount left over to put in their savings jar (not an account; never enough for an account), which they spend on food or sometimes even clothing.

It’s a pain to live like this, to scrape by with barely enough to survive, to have to do it over and over again. To never know if you’re going to have to go hungry the next day. To fear that you might get too sick for generic-brand over-the-counter medicine and that there will be nothing you can do about it.

The war stole childhood from the Maximoffs. There’s always anger bubbling inside them at the unfairness of the world. So when, at a protest, a man tells them that there’s a way for them to get money and help rid their country of this terrible war, the war that has caused them so much pain and plagues their dreams with memories they’d rather forget, the twins don’t even have to discuss it. Wanda grabs her brother’s hand and he squeezes it. They are ready.

So they agree. 


	2. ashes

It might not seem like it, but she has always been the stronger of the two. On the worst night of their lives it’s Pietro who huddles against Wanda’s shoulder, sobbing inconsolably. Wanda had reached out for her parents, but he’d grabbed her by the shirt before the ground could crumble underneath her. They’re under the bed now, covered in grey, except for the streaks of skin on Pietro’s face where the tears wiped out the dust.

Wanda does not cry; she cannot cry, no matter how much she wants to. She is too full of hate to cry, much more hate than a ten-year old should ever have to bear. She runs her hand through her brother’s hair in a useless attempt to console him, but she never takes her eyes off the bomb that sits so close to him, ready to go off at any second. She only learned to read English two years ago, but she reads and rereads the words on the dented metal shell: _Stark Industries._

[Старк](). She’s heard that name before on television. So it was him who was responsible for this. For the death of their parents. For the destruction in their country. Wanda knows she will never forget the name if she survives. She will make sure Stark never forgets what he has done to her. To her brother. To her country. She is sure, and she knows Pietro would agree, that there is nothing worse than to expect to die any second, to hear nothing but explosions in the distance, to have the image of your parents dying in front of your eyes fresh and unforgettable in your mind, and to know you were surely next. It feels like the whole world is empty, like maybe there will be nothing left worth living for, and all because of him. Because of Stark. It’s his fault.

She tattoos the name in her brain while she holds her brother, listening to the world around her explode. It is then that she makes herself promise that if she ever gets the chance, she will bring Stark down.


	3. hell is grey

The second they are delivered to the orphanage is the second they know they want to leave. It’s grey and low-ceilinged and hotter than it should be, with an unidentifiable, decidedly unpleasant smell that, while faint, is not welcoming in the slightest. There are too many unhappy children for too few overworked staff members, and there doesn’t seem to be much to do. The atmosphere makes Wanda nervous; it reminds her of concrete dust, and she can feel the unhappiness of the children even when none of them have even looked at her. It makes her want to cry.

The twins, deep purple circles noticeable under their eyes, have no strength to protest when at night they divide the children into the girls’ bedroom and the boys’ bedroom. But they both know they won’t be able to sleep well without each other to turn to when the nightmares come. (And they will come). They are together at all times during the day — during meals they sit together, during school hours they’re never apart, and you’re most likely to see them holding hands.

Sometimes, during free hours, they overhear kids talking about how badly they want to be adopted by a family that will love them as much as his old one or another who longs to know what family love is like. They have hope for those kids, for the younger ones who always seem to be bright-eyed and do well in classes. Those will get out.

But the twins know that it won’t happen to them, not together, not at all. They’re too old (no one gets adopted at ten), too attached to each other (no one wants to adopt two kids at once), and no worker or student has anything particularly good to say about them. It’s not that they’re not nice or friendly; but the other kids and the workers don’t seem to like them at all.

Maybe it’s because Wanda creeps people out. Maybe it’s her death stare, how she’s gotten so pale and skinny she looks like a ghost. Maybe it’s because whenever someone teases her or Pietro, she glares at them with a look so full of anger her eyes might as well have been red, and the next morning it seems like they always wake up crying with nightmares about things they’d rather not remember.

Or maybe it’s because Pietro is hard to handle. The older kids tease him because he can’t ever sit still and it’s hard for him to remember his lessons. They make fun of him when he changes topics mid-sentence or when he says words so fast he trips over them.

The older kids, the ones that are thirteen and older, the ones that are bitter because they know it’s unlikely they’ll leave, they’re the ones who cause trouble and make up their own rules but are smart enough to play nice when there are adults nearby. They’re the ones that tease them. Those are the ones Wanda hates more than anything.

Pietro has gotten punished multiple times because of them, because he was “starting fights,” because they love crowding around him and telling him all the ways they’re going to punch him until he cracks and hits some of them to defend himself. The first time it happened, they punished Pietro by making him help clean the bathrooms for three weeks. He’d come crying to Wanda after the first day, saying, “I didn’t even do anything wrong, Wanda, they were all trying to attack me so I punched them in the stomach… I’m not a bad guy!”

“I know,” she’d said, in the most calming way possible, and ran her hands through his hair like she always has done. “You did what you had to do.”

The years pass and they can never, ever get used to life in the orphanage.

The food is never enough; just two small, mushy, flavorless meals a day, and their stomachs always grumble even right after they’ve eaten. A good night’s sleep is completely impossible, because hundreds of children of all ages and sizes inhabit just two rooms divided by gender, where they sleep on the floor on mattresses so thin one wonders why they’re not just called blankets; someone is always coughing, crying, snoring, or talking in their sleep. In the summer it’s always too hot and at least two people get heatstroke, while in the winter it’s always too cold and the sound of chattering teeth is almost completely unbearable for Wanda.

There’s never anything to do. The children are always left to their own devices when there are no more chores or lessons, but there’s nothing to entertain themselves with. No space where they can run around. In the twins’ case, there’s not really any friends they can talk to. And there’s no peace. The older kids continue to make other people’s lives miserable, particularly people they don’t like, which is — unfortunately — a long list including Wanda and Pietro.

It’s hell.

But they stay, because they have each other. They stay, because even when the winters are cold they know they’re much colder outside where the snow piles up fast and everything freezes over. They stay, because at least they know when they’re getting food. They stay, because at last they’re attending school. They stay, but they do not enjoy it.

For four years, they stay in hell.


	4. runaways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: there are implied intentions of sexual assault. there is, however, no actual assault, neither on- nor off-page.

It’s late April and their fifteenth birthday is only a month away when they know they will implode if they stay any longer.

It’s the last straw when an older boy, sixteen or seventeen, almost aging out of the system, begins to corner Wanda one day while Pietro is off getting yelled at by a teacher. Wanda takes one look at the leering look on his face and instantly wants to throw up.

“You know, you’re a pretty girl,” he says. His tone that makes it obvious that he doesn’t really care about what she has to say. Small talk is not what he came for. He takes another step towards her.

Wanda frowns and she doesn’t think it twice. She brings her knee up to kick him where it will hurt the most and punches him in the nose. He falls to the ground in pain, because damn right she was aiming to hurt him. She knows his ego is so elevated that he won’t ever tell anyone this was caused by a girl, so she knows she won’t get into trouble.

Her voice is one full of controlled rage, and she calmly steps over him so she can leave him. Before she does, though, she makes sure he can see her face while she spits at him: “ _Fuck_ you. Я надеюсь, что вы _умрете_.” She kicks him one last time so he can tell she means it, then walks away.

She means what she said. She hopes he has nightmares for the rest of his life. (Something tells her he will.) Most importantly, she never, ever wants to see him again. If she was a color, it would be a bloody scarlet.

When she tells Pietro, he is livid. His rage is not like hers; has never been like hers. His rage is like a hurricane, loud and wild and fast and uncontrollable. Wanda’s not like that. She’s more controlled, less impulsive, more planned out. Pietro swears up and down that he’ll destroy that boy but Wanda grabs his wrist and tells him to calm down.

“Pietro, breathe. He didn’t do anything. Don’t go after him.”

“Wanda, I —”

“No. Listen to me. We’re going to get out of here. There’s nothing worth staying for.”

Pietro half-grins and half-looks like he’s about to cry. “I was waiting for you to say that.”

That night, they wrap as many clothes as they can inside two blankets and grab anything they own of any importance. (It’s not much. Just Wanda’s necklace, Pietro’s fading photograph of their parents, and some coins they’ve found on the floor.) Pietro is quick enough on his feet that he can grab some food from the kitchen, and they head out under the cover of the stars.

They know it won’t be easy to survive, but maybe they can get a chance to live.


	5. this is what war feels like

The first winter is the hardest. They’ve never noticed how cold it is in Sokovia; they’ve lived in places where there’s heating — however faulty it might be, in the orphanage’s case — all their lives.  They would never consider themselves lucky, not after they lost their family, but right after the first snowfall is when they feel unluckiest. The cold goes deep within their bones, making their noses red and their fingers blue.

The next day, the first thing they do is walk into a thrift store and make sure it sells winter coats. They have some money, found on the floor or pickpocketed from someone’s purse, but they can’t use it for anything other than food because there are no street vendors to steal from in the winter. They’ve gone in knowing what they have to do. Wanda is quieter, cleverer. She carefully slips a pair of gloves into her pants pockets and puts on a second one. She acts like she’s always been wearing them when she heads over to Pietro, who is looking at the winter coats.

“Go outside. I’m putting one on and grabbing another,” he says, barely moving his mouth in a whisper so quiet only she can hear.

She shakes her head almost imperceptibly. “You’ll never make it. They’re heavy.”

“I’m fast,” Pietro says, settling the matter. “I’ll be fine. Wait for me by Козлов Street.”

Twenty minutes later Wanda is freezing cold and about to go back for him, but he appears in the horizon, running towards her. He’s short of breath and has snow on his hair and dirt and scratches on his face, meaning he fell at least once. But he’s wearing a fuzzy-looking brown winter coat and he holds a bundle out for her.

“It’s red,” he manages to say after he stops running. “Your f — your favorite.”

Wanda smiles. “Thank you,” she says, putting it on. It’s a bit too big for her, but it’s fantastic — the lining is warm and soft, and it’s heavy enough to keep most of the cold out. It doesn’t hurt that it’s pretty, too. He probably picked it out for her. Maybe that’s why he took so long. Her newly-gloved hands reach into her pockets and she pulls out a pair of sky-colored gloves. “I got these for you, too. I know you like blue.”

He puts them on and pulls her into a hug. “Thank you,” he says into her ear. “Thank you.” They hold on for a while longer, not just because they’re grateful for each other but also because this way they’ll get warmer faster. It’s getting late, though, so after a while they decide to head back to the abandoned house down on the old factory district where they sleep in the basement and have set up a temporary place to live. They curl up together under the two blankets, still wearing their winter coats, and try to sleep.

“Pietro,” Wanda whispers, “I don’t like stealing. We need money, we need… jobs.”

“Do you think anyone will hire us, little sister?” he says, in a disbelieving tone.

She sighs. “We’re twins, Pietro. And… we don’t have to tell anyone what we are or how old we are. We can lie. We look older than we are, trust me. None of the kids our age I’ve seen look so beaten-down. We just… won’t turn up to work on Shabbats, is all.”

“It’s not all. We’re Rroma. We look Rroma. You know what they'll call us. They’ll accuse us of stealing —”

“Which is what we do already. Which is what I want to avoid. By getting a job. Pietro, we — we have to.”

“I — you know what, fine. Let’s try it. Maybe we can find something,” he says in a comforting tone.

“Pietro, promise me, you’ll try to get a job, alright? So will I,” she says, and he promises. They fall asleep huddled together inside the basement of the rotting house, surrounded by nothingness. They sleep, surprisingly, without nightmares. Maybe it’s too cold for nightmares tonight.

They sleep, that is, until they’re awakened by the unfortunately familiar sound of a bomb shell going on in the distance. Pietro sits up and curses, his heart racing because what if the bombs reach them? What then? Wanda starts crying. She’s curled up in a ball, sweating and feeling like her heart is going to explode. Not again, not again. She’s going to throw up. It doesn’t feel like anything is real around her, not even herself, not even when Pietro puts his hands on her shoulders and whispers in her ear that it’s okay, that they’re far away this time, that the bombs won’t reach them this time. She doesn’t hear the screams of anyone — Pietro’s right, the bombs are far away — but there’s an indescribable sensation inside her, and it’s like… it’s like she can _feel_ them.

How many more children will end up like them after this night? Orphans, homeless, starving, freezing? The winter is not welcoming and the war means the orphanages are overcrowded. How many more will die? This is Stark again. The bombs are his, she knows. What kind of human being is proud to put his name on something made to destroy lives?

She has heard many times on the street people who say they just want Sokovia to win the war. But she’s huddled in a corner, thinking about all the lives that are lost in them, and the only coherent thought that runs through her head repeats itself over and over again.

There are no winners in a war.


	6. alone together

Normal teenagers don’t live like this.

They haven’t met many people their age, but they it's different for them. Normal teenagers are still in school and don’t have to worry about never having enough money to fix the heater in their apartment so they don’t freeze to death in winter. Normal teenagers don’t have to worry about earning enough money to eat that week. Normal teenagers don’t have to steal medicine when they get sick.

Normal teenagers have family to celebrate Seder with.

When the date comes along, Wanda makes a mean _matzah_ , and ridding the apartment of _chametz_ is always easy because it’s not like there’s a lot of food in it. They’ve never been able to buy wine and it’s not something you can just steal, so grape juice has always had to do for Seder. They have vague memories of their parents reciting the _Haggadah_ while they all held hands around the table. They’re not here anymore, of course, so Pietro has taken on the responsibility of reciting it (because he’s twelve minutes older). They always take a few minutes afterwards to remember, in silence, their mother and father who loved them so much. Who taught them so much.

Neither of them wants to let the other see them cry.

Normal teenagers have people to celebrate their birthdays with. Especially one as important as their eighteenth.

“It’s March nineteenth,” Wanda says that morning, while she eats a slice of bread that’s starting to go stale.

“So I’ve noticed,” Pietro says. “[С днем рождения,](smarty/) little sister. Do you have work today?”

“Happy birthday to you too, Pietro. We’re still the same age, you know. No need for the ‘little.’ And no, I don’t, I cleaned Mrs. Belova’s house yesterday. Do you?”

“Well, I’m older. Therefore, I’m wiser,” he retorts, with an impish grin. Wanda laughs at his comment (he’s obviously not). “And yes, I do. But only until six today. The boss’s daughter is sick and he's closing up earlier.”

“Ah. That’s unlucky. Still, maybe we can do something today,” she smiles.

He scoffs. “Something? Everything costs money. We don’t have any to spare.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pietro. There are things going on today. There’s a music festival in the park, today and tomorrow. I heard it from Belova’s son. It’s local music, the kind of bands who are just starting out. Maybe they’re worth seeing. It starts at six.”

Pietro nods approvingly. “Alright.” He walks over to her and shakes breadcrumbs from her shoulder. “But it’s early still. What are you going to do until then?” he asks.

“I’m going to buy a cake. Hey, don’t look at me like that!” she protests, hitting him softly in the shoulder. “It counts as food. It’s a special day, [идиот.”](/)

Pietro pretends to be hurt. But he rolls his eyes and sighs. “Alright. So long as it’s good cake. Strawberry or something.” He grins. “I’ll be back at six-something. Maybe we can dress up for that festival of yours.” He kisses her on the forehead, grabs his key, and heads out.

The truth is, Wanda doesn’t have a gift for Pietro yet. It makes her feel terrible, because she knows she should. He’s always had something for her, and everything he’s given her she has treasured. Like the red coat he stole for her — she still wears it. It's not like she's grown very much since back then. Or the mismatched rings from different places — some bought, others not, but presents for her all the same. Those never leave her hands. She always gave him letters on their birthdays, letters that were a snapshot of everything that had happened that year and all the memories within it. But that had stopped once they started living by themselves. Paper wasn’t a necessity, and it wasn’t easy to take, either. She needed to write him a letter with everything she had missed since then.

She has a small packet of nice, baby-blue paper that she hopes is enough, and a pen (not stolen, but something one of the people she cleans for gave her) with a steady flow of ink. She sits on the floor and starts writing. Memories flow from her brain to the paper, thinking about every single time Pietro’s made her smile or laugh and about every single time he’s protected her from anything. She thinks about all the times they slept holding hands so that they knew the other would still be there when the nightmares came and about everything he’s done for her. (And about everything she's done for him.)

 _Remember when you first braided my hair? Remember when you used to pick flowers for me when you were little? When I got in trouble at school for yelling at a teacher because he insulted you for fidgeting in class?_ _When that vendor caught me stealing, and you had to teach me to get better? When I sprained my ankle running and you practically had to carry me for a block? The first Yom Kippur we celebrated on our own where we laughed because it wouldn’t be hard to fast since we already went hungry so often? How happy we were when we finally got to have this apartment? When I taught you how to cook?_

She writes and writes until the letter is four pages long and she can’t seem to stop writing. _We haven’t had a lucky life. I don’t think the universe has treated us very well, has it? But at least we have each other. I’m thankful, that, after everything we’ve been through… I’m thankful we’ve made it together. Happy birthday, Pietro. Lots of love_ — _Wanda._

She can’t stop smiling after that. She takes the letter and rolls up the papers into a tube, tying them with dark blue ribbon that she bought for the purpose. It’s time to buy that cake now.

At eight, they head to the festival full of strawberry cake and dressed in their nicest outfits. Wanda wears a dark red dress and a black jacket; Pietro doesn’t wear a hoodie like most days but instead a brown leather jacket that actually looks decent. They’ve brought a blanket so they can sit, picnic-style, in a place close to the middle of the park where it’s not too loud or crowded but they can still see the stage well enough. Most of the bands are fine, some are even enjoyable; but the truth is they didn’t come so much for the music as for a change of pace so they could feel like they were actually celebrating.

It’s roughly ten when the bands have switched to quieter, slower music and it’s no longer difficult to talk with the music in the background that Pietro turns to Wanda with a little box in his hand. “I got this for you. I bought it,” he says, because he knows she’ll appreciate it.

Wanda takes the present out of the little box. It’s a short, silver-colored necklace with a pendant that holds a tiny (but beautiful) dark red stone, absolutely wonderful. “It’s beautiful. Thank you,” she says, trying her very best not to get choked up. She takes the letter she wrote for him out of her jacket. “Here,” she says, handing it over to him. “I wrote it for you.”

He’s always been a fast reader, but for some reason it feels like ages before he finishes the letter. She hopes, with all her heart, that he likes it. She fidgets absently with her new necklace and it’s only when she hears a tiny sniffle that she looks at him. Pietro is smiling (his real smile, the kind he doesn’t show very often even though it makes his face light up), wiping his nose and the corners of his eye with his sleeve. Still, a little tear makes its way down his cheek and onto the paper.

“Wanda, this is — this is the best gift I could’ve gotten. I didn’t know how much I needed it but I did, I —” He stops there, smiling again and shaking his head. Wanda feels like she might cry herself, she’s so ecstatic. She reaches out and wraps him in a hug, and suddenly there are tears running down her tears and they’re there, hugging each other, crying in the middle of a music festival on their birthday like idiots, but the happiness is so much Wanda feels like all she can see is gold…

They break apart after a while, and wipe their tears away while they laugh.

“We’re old now, aren’t we, Wanda?” Pietro says, looking off into the distance at the band, who’s playing something distant and bluesy; something decidedly uncommon.

She chuckles, the lights a little hazy through her misty eyes. “Could even drink legally if we wanted to,” she jokes. Not that she cares, but it feels like a big milestone.

Pietro shakes his head. “We could.” He looks down at the ground for a second and sighs. “Remember when our parents were talking about how happy their nephew was when he turned eighteen, how his parents were excited and took him to dinner before he went out with his friends? Imagine that. That could have been us.” _If not for Stark,_ is the unsaid.

“It could have been.” It seems like it’s taken them centuries instead of just eight years to be eighteen. Their parents would have been so happy to see them today, wouldn’t they? “…I miss them,” she says, resting her head on Pietro’s shoulder.

He throws his arm around her and puts his hand on her shoulder. “I miss them too. Every day. I look at the picture I have of us and I just...” He trails off, but she gets it.

“Do you think they’d be proud of us, Pietro?” she asks in a tiny voice, like a child, and she can’t help but feel like crying again.

“I think they’d be proud of how long we’ve made it," he says, running his hand along her shoulder to make her feel better.

For a couple more songs, they stay like that; Wanda with her head on Pietro’s shoulder while the green and blue and red lights make them feel like they’re in another planet. Another universe. They’re imagining what could have been, what _should_ have been if not for that day.

But they’re alright. They have each other, at least, and no one is going to take that away from them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i wrote that last sentence on purpose. yes, i am literally satan. i love you guys. enjoy.


End file.
